


New York, 1982

by Lafeae



Series: Random AU Ideas [7]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Body Worship, M/M, Probably without plot, Smut, mild voyueurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23105317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafeae/pseuds/Lafeae
Summary: During an important New York fashion show, haute couture fashion designer Seto Kaiba finds the elusive ‘look’ he’s been looking for in Joey Wheeler, a new model on the scene.Kaiba wants to indulge in every part of Joey’s body—with or without clothes.—Fashion AU
Relationships: Jounouchi Katsuya | Joey Wheeler/Kaiba Seto
Series: Random AU Ideas [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1228205
Comments: 12
Kudos: 64





	New York, 1982

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t really have anything to say for myself. I blame movies. 
> 
> Mild kinks in here probably but I’m actually not sure.

“Hurry up. Change! _Change_!” The beleaguered, sweat-covered assistant, Roland, shouted. “This isn’t a spa routine gentleman, and it certainly isn’t a locker room. Giancarlo, go, go! Don’t look at me like that Duke, if you’re about to have a conniption, take it outside. Mr. Kaiba will not tolerate your attitude.” 

The dark-haired model, half dressed in tight leather pants and a loose fitting, wide-shouldered tunic rolled his eyes until the whites showed. The make-up artist smudged eyeliner down his cheeks and smoothed out the concealer on his cheeks. 

With a snap, Duke was sent out. From the corner, Kaiba watched with a curl on his lip. “Tell Elite we’re not working with them after this,” he said to his perspiring assistant. “If I have to deal with more useless, B-class primadonnas like him I’m going to puke.” 

“They said you said he matched the look.” 

“I said he was ‘in the realm’ of the look.” 

Roland’s shoulders dropped. “Well, that’s as much as I could go off of.” 

“Do better next time. Get me a Cooper, a Tiegs, a...a Matsumoto,” Kaiba insisted, and as soon as he saw the down-turn in Roland’s cheeks, Kaiba jabbed a finger him. “And don’t tell me you can’t find it. It exists, and I know precisely what I’m looking for. It stands out when you see it. It makes any man want to jump out of his skin and run into Greenwich Village just to see what appeals to them. Find me that.” 

Roland slumped against a vanity chair, and before he could complain about being run ragged and ‘doing his best’, Kaiba crossed the length of dim-lit backstage, through the teeming beauty of well-rounded and toned shoulders, pectorals, and long-lithe legs, all highlighted in a comely, pseudo-heavenly—for those who believed in it—way. It was enough to make a weaker man shiver, but he’d become used to the sex-charged cacophony that happened behind the velveteen curtains. 

He’d learned to ignore the more base urges as he sheared through tight pants seams and made quick work of garments seconds before sending it onto the runway. He touched the tight, corded hamstrings and gluts of the few models he had approved to sell his brand to the world, and none of them phased him. They thought it phased him; the right kind of men, with the wrong kind of eyes, would corner him after, or even bolder, before a show and try to coax him to a club or party afterwards. “It’ll be a good time. You and me, a few friends, drinks,” they’d say, with a tilt of the head and a practiced, photographed smile as deep as a puddle. 

He’d always say no, and he’d smell sex on them long before the show ended. They would disappear behind the curtains or in the back rooms, pretending he didn’t notice. There were so many people, you didn’t often notice. Not between the blinding lights and the zoo stampeding around you. But not Kaiba; he took note of the faces—that’s all they were, faces and sales numbers—and when he couldn’t see them anymore he made sure to make a note that Roland also noted, and eventually turned into his little blacklist. “We sell sex, we don’t have it,” he affirmed time and time again. 

Though as he sat back for five seconds, the average length of break he’d have for that night, he took a steady breath and almost stopped. His heart stilled; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and he knocked his head to Roland who was too busy sending out the next mannequin to notice his subtle turn of the head. Useless. But maybe, for this, it was a good thing. 

At a far vanity, a make-up artist tweezed and sprayed down a barely familiar blond. Unfamiliar, however, to Kaiba’s brand of haute couture. The sort of person that didn’t rightly sell art, they sold cars or cheap suits with wide ties tucked into the trousers. Losers. Relics of days gone by. 

“Did you decide that showing up late was acceptable?” Kaiba asked as he strolled over. 

The blond was casual. He tilted his chair onto the back two legs as he flopped his head back. “What are ya goin’ on about?” 

“Oh, good, a New York native,” Kaiba said. “Just what I needed.”

“Got a problem with New York boys?” the blond asked, turning when the make-up artist grabbed his chin and dusted away glitter from his cheeks. “I was at another show. Yours ain’t the only one goin’ on, ya know. This is a whole gala thing.” 

“You’re still late.” 

“You’re still late,” the blond mimicked in a nasally tone. “Look, I ain’t here t’ make a scene with whoever ya are, so jus’ go tell Seth—,” 

“Seto.” 

“Right, that’s what I said, Seto. Tell ‘im Joey Wheeler’s here, an’ I’m ready to do this. But I only got so much time, ya know?” the blond said, running his fingers through the his fluffy bangs. 

Kaiba contemplated the best approach to this problem. This uncultured, bare-mannered primadonna that he recognised in the worst kind of way. Joseph Wheeler, 21, a new face on the scene. His easy sloping jaw, high cheeks, and honey-licked eyes were in again. A retake on a classic face, and his hadn’t been built by a surgeon. At least that’s what reputable sources told him. And it didn’t look like there was skin bunching behind his ears or on his hairline. 

“Seto already knows that you’re here, because you’re talking to him.” 

“I’m what now?” Joey asked, flummoxed. 

It hurt that he was so stupid. Because as his tongue slid between his front teeth and along as his lower lip, Kaiba was searching for breath. “You’re absolutely the most dense creature I’ve ever met.” 

“Hey now, ya could’ve told me. There ain’t no reason to be an ass.”

Kaiba rolled his eyes and pointed towards the runway. “Stop gawking at yourself and get dressed Wheeler.” 

The blond snapped his chair down and stood, throwing off his jeans so violently that Kaiba thought they were done for. Which was good, because the jeans needed to go in the trash. Acid-wash was disgustingly fringe, even if he wore it well. 

Joey glared Kaiba down while he dressed. He never broke eye contact. His head only turned away at the last moment. He hooked his thumbs into the leather pants as he strolled out onto the runway. He didn’t have the same walk or tease as other models. He was unnaturally fluid, his body was curved and languid. He made the turn on the end of the runway on his heels, throwing the long-tailed coat off and over his shoulder with a cool flair.

Cameras drooled over him. The crowd whistled and hollared, and all Kaiba could do was watch his legs. His feet. The way he danced on the runway as if he owned it. 

“Roland!” The assistant came running. “Grab me the trunk.”

“Sir?” 

“The trunk, you know what I’m talking about.” 

Roland stammered, glancing about. “But those are your unwanted designs, what are we—,” 

Kaiba snapped his fingers and pointed towards the back of the stage. “Did I stutter? Get the trunk, and find me a pair of heels for Wheeler.” 

“Heels, sir?” Roland blanched, waving his hands about at the army of men that paraded around the backstage.

With a flippant look, Kaiba walked away and gathered up his supplies as the men cycled onto the runway. Stylists and his underlings made small changes on his command, hemming jackets and in-seams to fit the model at the last moment. It was as much an art as it was a science. Which, really, fashion wasn’t so much art depending on who was asked and when. Kaiba didn’t think so. It was chasing inspiration and trend and staying three steps ahead of the other couture houses. He’d like to see the frilly German or his former partner Pegasus out-design him. 

Roland reappeared with an old Louis Vuitton chest and dropped it at Kaiba’s feet. The designer greedily rifled through fabrics and old designs, pulling out several creations. 

“You sure this is going to work, sir? This—this is very unlike you to do this. We’re—we’re in New York for God’s sake. This is your fall line and that’s, well, you called that last winter’s trash and it’s,” Roland breathlessly helped Kaiba when he was told to do so, snipping at fabric and sewing it in a mad dash in between coordinating the models. “Mr. Kaiba, what has gotten into you?” 

“Did you get me the heels?” Kaiba asked. 

Roland’s hand wiped down his face. He raced off, swearing under his breath. 

It was something that Roland wouldn’t understand, Kaiba decided. It was controlled madness. It was a spark of creative insanity he didn’t plan on losing. And each time Joey came back from a turn on the runway, stripping down to nude underwear and throwing on the next moderately inspired ruffled top of chic preppy-meets-punk jacket, Kaiba regretted the seconds he lost. This look would go out, and it would go out on the graceless fool. 

The photographers paid the most attention to Joey. They swooned. They cheered him on, and they would gape at whatever Kaiba hung from his body. He would use Joey like the expensive rack of meat he was. 

As they neared the last looks, his grand and most couture designs for the fall season, Kaiba grinned madly to himself. He was done. His creation was finished, and he tossed it off to Roland and told him to dress Joey in it. 

The assistant twitched, malcontent. “Are you sure?” 

“You’re going to question me?” Kaiba said, rueful. “We don’t have time for this! Put it on him with the heels.” 

“The heels?” 

“Yes, the heels.” 

Exasperated, Roland called for Joey to dress. Kaiba watched from a distance. He twisted his fingers in his shirt sleeves as Joey shrugged on the loose-fitting, blood-red kimono top. The undershirt was buttoned up to his neck, and it all tucked into a pair skin-tight leather pants studded at the seam. Those slipped into knee high boots, heeled and buckled, that barely fit him in the ankle but were enough to pull the look together. Kaiba finished it off with a strip of chiffon around Joey’s neck, tightening it to a bow on his bobbing Adam’s apple. He could imagine his tongue against that Adam’s apple. It had a real, rough shave grain barely covered by concealer. 

“I ain’t done heels before,” Joey said. 

“You are now.” 

The blonde looked beyond the curtain as the last of the models began walking back in. He looked simultaneously careworn and filled with excitement. “You’re a psycho, ya know that?” 

Kaiba shoved Joey forward. “Don’t trip on the way out,” he said, and he wiped his sweaty palms off on his shirt as his creation strutted out onto the runway, leisurely but conscientious of his moves as one foot went in front of the other. His calves, his thighs, and perfect and even crest of his leg into his hip. 

Kaiba exhaled and went to leave. “I need a smoke,” he said, throwing a glance to Roland. “Bring Wheeler to me with a photographer when the show is over.” 

“Anything else, sir?” 

“Yes,” Kaiba said, without hesitation. “Don’t let him undress.” 

—

When Joey met up with him in a back corner of the stage, he asked: “How long’s this gonna take, I have another show to get to.” 

“We’ve bought you for the rest of the night,” Kaiba addressed. He revealed himself from the dim spot between the curtains that he’d slinked into as Joey’s heels clacked all the way to the designated meeting spot. “So you’re going nowhere until I get the proper shots I need.” 

Joey half-smiled, brow furrowed. “How’d ya buy out Pegasus?” 

“We have a history.” 

“History?” Joey asked, loaded with curiosity. “S’that right?” 

“Yes.” 

“Like...what kinda history?” 

“If you don’t already know, then I’m not sharing with you.” 

“Well that’s a damn shame.” Joey buried his hands in the chiffon bow around his neck. 

Kaiba tutted him. “Leave the clothes on until I tell you otherwise.” 

The way Joey stopped made his shoulders slouch back. His head rolled with the motion. His lips formed an apostrophe, bringing out a few vague smile lines that might haunt him in ten years or so. Though for Joey Wheeler, it may not have been a bad thing. He sold his smile in a n’er-do-well fashion, carefree and untortured by the burning lights and busting bulbs. The photographer caught his moment of surprise, and highlighted his brow. 

“Follow the backdrop,” Kaiba ordered. “There, yes, I set up markers on the ground.” 

Joey squinted at the electrical tape lines. “Oh, guess there is.” 

“Follow the lines. Follow them there, one foot in front of the other. Toe, heel, toe, heel,” Kaiba choreographed monotonously, using his first two fingers to mime the walk. “Stop there, go through the poses.” 

“Poses,” Joey repeated, already in position. His hands on his thighs, hips, crossed over his chest as he shifted and turned. 

There were automatons posing themselves as models who had a routine they studied, but Joey did as he pleased. Eyes open, eyes closed, using the heel of his shoe a pivot point. Roughly, Kaiba imagined his ankle snapping. It happened to better people, but he would have been at a loss looking at Joey’s legs, that wore Kaiba’s leather pants so tight he could see the ripple in his thighs. He would have come over to Joey and aided him in the most selfish way he could. Lick the knot where his ankle jutted out, caressed beneath his knee while raising the leg onto his own. To be safe, of course, because that’s what you did. You raised wounded legs up. 

Maybe the photographer would get that shot. Joey’s anguish, his own captivated stare, and the nuance of quasi-obsession between the two in an unrestrained moment.

It didn’t happen. The posing session went on for a half-an-hour or so, where Kaiba leaned back and burned through another cigarette. He made Roland leave; this wasn’t his show. 

Outside, everyone was gone. The stage was silent and dark, casting no light onto the backstage. The photographer set up his own lighting, kept a sultry dim at Kaiba’s behest. He knew it added to the flair and accentuated the bold colours of his design; moreover, it hid the erection tightening in his trousers. Because those legs, the turn of Joey’s wrists and simple flex of his fingers as they touched one another, touched his chest, touched his face, made Kaiba shiver in delight and run his hand along the seam where he bulged. 

Joey saw it. Kaiba saw that Joey saw it and grinned. 

“Did you take off the makeup?” Kaiba asked after too many minutes of shutter clicks. 

Joey shook his head. “No one tol’ me to.” 

“Wipe it off.” 

“Gonna need a few make-up wipe things then,” Joey replied, though he tongued the gloss off his lips. 

That tongue was still out when Kaiba brought over a handful of alcohol pads and dabbed the concealer from his cheeks. He was porous, but not overly so. Beneath his eyes there were hazy dark spots. Shadows of his work. Up close, Joey looked exhausted. It suited him though, breathless and tired. 

Kaiba gripped Joey’s chin when he wriggled. He wiped harder, getting the more coarse makeup off, until Joey’s cheeks were naturally blushed by his toughness and care. “You a friend of Dorothy’s?” Joey asked nonchalantly. 

“Mm.” 

“You know, a friend,” Joey said, hooking his finger into Kaiba’s pants. “Like me, I’ve been her friend since as long as I can remember. And I go to this bar down in Chelsea, there’s a lot of friends of hers there—,”

Kaiba’s thumb dragged down Joey’s lower lip and pressed. “Models don’t talk. In fact, I highly encourage you stop it while you’re still ahead.” 

“But ya are,” Joey said, matter-of-fact. 

A camera click went off. 

Their eyes met. No amount of averted gaze would have been as pulling or as telling as facing Joey down in the thirty-six seconds of mental bargaining they had. The little spark, the way Joey tilted his head and asked ‘either this is happening or I’m sucker-punching you’. He was threatening but nonviolent, toeing the line of his masculinity with a mix of palpable sweat and easy going floral powder that Kaiba saw slap-dashed on his neck. 

He didn’t get to wipe the powder away. Joey unhooked from him and stepped back, tucking his hands into his pockets. 

“C’mon, I’m missin’ afterparties for this,” Joey chided. 

“Deal with it.” 

Joey snorted and strutted back in place, but Kaiba remained rooted close, inspecting him as he slouched, waiting for his marching orders. The tension between them grew, teasing, as Joey ran his fingers through his hair and ruffled it. His tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth, and Kaiba could imagine telling him just what to do with that tongue, where to put it. 

“Strip,” Kaiba ordered quickly. “Start with the scarf and work your way down the layers.” 

“Wantin’ me to show off everythin’?” 

“I want you to prove to me you’d be the best as the body for my line,” Kaiba replied. 

Joey boxed his arms around his face. “What, this ain’t enough?” 

“My models are more than a face. Their every being is used and consumed.” 

A low, slow whistle escaped Joey. He tugged the bow on his neck and stretched it out to his full arm-span, elegantly prostrating himself and dropping the scarf to the ground. He dug into the lapels of the kimono top, tearing it open and sliding it down to his elbows, letting the silk dangle and bunch around his hips. Every move was made with a kind of precision that Kaiba almost hated. Almost. 

Joey’s linger gaze never left him. He moved like a gyroscope, dancing through poses and craning about so that his eyes were always on the designer. With each slow, so painfully slow and textbook motion, Joey sold the less divine crevices of his body. He indulged in the way his cheek rested against his shoulder, curling against the jut of his collar-bone, as he unbuttoned the undershirt. 

Kaiba stepped closer. Heel, toe, heel, toe. He stayed to the side, just out of sight of the camera’s eye, just out of arm’s reach of Joey. He inspected the sweat-speckled balls of Joey’s shoulders and the muscles twitching down his back. “You look like an idiot, Wheeler.” 

“I ain’t the one doin’ the lookin’.” 

“Stop revelling.” 

Joey looked up from beneath thick lashes. “Like you’re not enjoyin’ this. It’s all you guys do, look at us like this. I can see it in your eyes right now. ‘When’s he gonna drop his pants’ you’re thinkin’. ‘When can I get a good look at those chops, that’s the real money-prize’. Then you’re gonna take me in the back an’ have your way. Right?” 

Joey arched his back in time for another flash of pictures. He popped the button on his pants and fiddled with the flaps with his thumbs. An irritating, diabolical tease. 

“I can appreciate something without making it a mess,” Kaiba replied tersely. 

“Whatever.” 

Kaiba stepped another foot closer. “I can. I’m not having my way now. You seem to be having all the fun.” 

“This ain’t fun.” Spinning on one of the heels, Joey stretched out his arms. The undershirt and kimono flung off of him in one fluid, carefree spin. And the camera clicked away. “This is work.” 

He caught the blond’s shoulder, caressing it as he stumbled in the heels. And he began the internal struggle of letting Joey go, or reeling him in closer. He wanted to know what Joey’s abs felt like; he wanted to trace the shape of his breast and maybe, just maybe, dip his his hand into the crevice between Joey’s thigh and torso. 

Joey leaned on him. 

“This _is_ fun for you,” Kaiba insisted. 

“Nah.”

“You like being looked at.” 

Joey smiled wryly. “Guess again, rich-boy. And before ya say it: no, I don’t like havin’ my picture taken, neither,” he said, and he craned his neck around Kaiba’s shoulder. 

The camera snapped away. 

“You’re in the wrong business, then.” 

“Mm-hm.” 

Kaiba gripped where Joey’s hands were hooked into the leather pants. They peeled off of his skin with enough pressure, threatening to drop. “And yet you’re still doing it, probably for the money,” Kaiba concluded. 

“It sure as hell ain’t for the love.” 

They swayed, and Kaiba noted that Joey had taken the lead. His taut buttocks brushing against Kaiba’s erection in a desperate ploy. He knew he was doing it; his body bounced and writhed with laughter. 

Another camera snap. 

“So about that bar in Chelsea...” Joey began. 

Though Kaiba didn’t believe it for a second, he said: “We’re still in the middle of a shoot,” because the camera was still snapping away. It showed all of their indecency. They were pictures Kaiba would have to buy for a high-price, to keep his personal business on the down low. The photographer, too. And though he liked the thought of seeing himself and Joey through a camera, he wasn’t in the mood for a ménage a trois.

“If you believe that, I got a bridge to sell ya. It’s in a bar. In Chelsea.” 

Reluctantly, Kaiba pulled away from Joey, but not before getting a kiss on the jaw. He went over to the photographer and put his hand over the camera lens. A few coarse words were exchanged, and Kaiba sent the photographer to a likely surprised Roland, who would sort out the situation. 

Kaiba was so assured of that, that he strutted back over to Joey and kissed him deeply on the mouth. He hooked into Joey so passionately, he lost his train of thought. All of his words were gone. He hooked an arm around the model’s neck and stood chest to chest, indulging in the taps of Joey’s bare chest against his. “If you really want me to go to that bar with you,” Kaiba said between breaths, “you’re going to have to stand still.” 

Without hesitation, Kaiba began lining Joey’s body with kisses. He slid down the sculpted muscle inch by inch, going as slow and even as he could, until he reached Joey’s waist. The pants wouldn’t do, no matter how skin-tight. He peeled them down the sensual, unblemished legs until he was on his knees. Joey shivered beneath the kisses; hot breath met warm skin, puckering to little red buds beneath suckling spots between his thighs. The nude underwear went last, and when Joey tried to kick everything off—even the heels—Kaiba grabbed handfuls of Joey’s ass. 

“I said stay still.” 

“But I’m gonna trip.” 

Kaiba sighed. “You’ll be fine, I’m not going to let you fall,” he said, despite the passing image of him nurturing Joey’s twisted ankle. He liked the model in-tact. Enough for him to ogle every crease in skin, ever little blemish and freckle, down to the curve of his foot in the heel. 

“What uh...what are ya gonna do then?” Joey chortled, low and playful. “I’m all undressed with nothin’ to do.” 

“I’m just inspecting.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes.” 

“And ya like what ya see?” Joey flexed without moving, the lean muscle bristling under Kaiba’s fingers. He pulled away, like having been burned. “What?” 

“I said stop moving.” 

Joey clicked his tongue in frustration, and Kaiba rolled his eyes before getting back to his ‘inspection’ as he heard Joey say derisively under his breath. He enjoyed the last few untouched places, running his fingers between Joey’s legs. The more tender, more hidden places were fondled; he drew circles in the model’s soft undercarriage, and let his pinky dance around the rim of his behind. And Joey let out little gasps and yelps, and eventually grunt when Kaiba fondled his balls. 

“You’re so mean, ya know?” Joey moaned. “At least buy a guy a drink first.” 

“This is work.” 

“You’re havin’ fun.” 

Kaiba shrugged before taking Joey’s hands and urging him to squat down. He rocked backwards when Joey hurdled forward, and the fell together, an entangled mess of knees and elbows. And Joey laughed against him, laughing hard and happily, igniting a small flame deep in Kaiba’s stomach. The feeling of a touch against him, that was so feather light, yet steady and balanced. Joey braced himself over Kaiba, kissing him three times in succession, missing his mouth once but still laughing. 

“Told ya I’d fall,” he said, hooking his chin onto Kaiba’s shoulder. 

“Don’t rub it in.” 

Hands crept beneath Kaiba’s shirt. Callused fingers, working fingers, pinched at his sides like a butcher testing meat, before they finally settled up by his collarbones. “So, while we’re down here...”Joey drawled off, “we wanna make use of the alone time?” 

“Who says we’re alone?” Kaiba asked. 

“I don’t hear anybody. They all went to the parties, an’ we’re here.” 

That was enough for Kaiba. Thought he hadn’t minded letting the photographer take pictures of their prior intimate moments, what was happening on the chilly floor in the backstage of a catwalk needed to be alone, private, away from the soulless and prying eyes of the industry. 

Kaiba took off his shirt and pants, using them to buffer the floor while Joey straddled him. The heels scrapped against Kaiba’s knees. He hitched Kaiba’s leg up against his hip and crudely licked his palm before rubbing it over his erection. 

As soon as Joey jabbed into Kaiba, he saw stars. It probably would have been better at his apartment, or after a trip to a bodega on their way to the bar. Getting inebriated would have helped, but he didn’t know how forgetful he was when drunk, and he enjoyed the feeling of Joey rocking back and forth, thrusting inside him. His stomach jumped into his throat and clogged his breath. His eyes watered, but he smiled and gripped onto Joey’s stunning legs and hips for traction, gyrating with the ebb and flow. If there were eyes on them, he thought, they only saw the fringe of shadows from the lamp near the backdrop. They only heard rasped cries and soft moans for ‘more, harder’ and the very gnashed demand of ‘closer!’ through grit teeth while Kaiba hoped for more skin against him. 

He wanted all of Joey’s skin. All the supple, bruising beneath his fingertips, skin. All the skin so slicked with sweat he lost grip and let ecstasy take him, his head spinning as the pressure built up.

Kaiba came, too fast, too soon. The rocking stopped. His muscles loosened and he unclenched his fists, returning his hands back to Joey’s behind. He looked up at Joey, his face red and his honey-licked eyes glowing in the low light. Even then, Kaiba made out Joey’s beautiful, sloping jaw. 

Joey leaned forward, falling out of Kaiba unceremoniously. “Yeah?” he asked, panting. 

“Mm-hm.” Kaiba pressed his lips closed and breathed out of his nose, suffering while catching his breath. He didn’t want the light-headedness to leave. 

“So you uh, ya wanna go to that bar then?” Joey asked. 

The sigh lingered in Kaiba’s chest. “You and the stupid bar.”

“Well ya bought out my night, so we may as well make use of it.”

And Kaiba looked over at Joey, his rosy cheek rested gracefully in his hand, and he couldn’t say no. 

**Author's Note:**

> “Friend of Dorothy” was a common slang used to identify gay men, and it started around WW2 in order to be discreet, and it also sparked a military investigation looking for homosexual soldiers connected to a real woman named Dorothy at the time. The phrase was on the downslope by this time period, though still used enough I think it’s not anachronistic. 
> 
> That said, this was just a weird offshoot I had after watching a movie, and an excuse for some pure smut. So tell me what you think!


End file.
